


Starting Again

by wordsbymeganmichael



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Own Characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-07 23:28:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12242721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsbymeganmichael/pseuds/wordsbymeganmichael
Summary: On the morning of her husband Graham's funeral, Emma Swan decides to drop everything and pack everything and her dog into her truck to start a new life. Living out of a hotel in Boston may not be the most glamorous life, but will Killian Jones, her hotel room neighbor, be the light to her in this dark time of her life?





	1. Emma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I started this story using other character names as a fanfic before I even knew what fics were, so if there are mistakes, I apologize. Also, for the sake of Emma's story, Mary Margaret is Graham's mother, who has sort of adopted Emma. Trust me, it will make more sense later.

1.

On the morning of the gloomiest day of Emma Huphrey’s life, there is not a cloud in the sky.  In fact, the sun shines brightly through the tops of the trees, seeming to sear a hole in her head, even through her tinted glasses.

 _I’m not ready for this,_ she thinks, but quickly corrects herself.   _I would never be ready for this._

She feels someone come up behind her, hears them close the sliding door to the porch - which she failed to do herself.  For a moment, she thinks it’s Graham, like every other morning - his tie untied, his hair a mess, but bringing her her morning cup of black tea, two sugars and enough milk to make it the deep tan color of the backs of his arms in the middle of summer, the peak of his swimming season. Just the thought of him waltzing through that door, her tea in one hand and is coffee in the other, pulls a smile onto her face - a smile which quickly fades when she remembers why his mother is the one standing behind her, and not Graham himself.

“How are you doing, sweetheart?”

Shifting her weight from her feet to her arms, now leaning on the freshly-finished wooden railing, she finds herself looking down at her hands and remembering just how much Graham adored them.

“Honestly, I’m doing better than I expected I would,” she says, but just a moment too soon - she turns around to face Mary Margaret, and is instead faced with entirely too many memories of her husband -

 _Can I even call him that?_ she asks herself, her eyes flittering from his shoes piled next to the door, something she always pestered him to fix; to the big wrought iron clock he made in his iron working class her sophomore year of college, the year after receiving his diploma, which he only took at the art shop in her college town as an excuse to be there at the same time that she was done.  Then there was the grill next to the back door, which he insisted he needed, then went out and bought - tried to use once, failed, and never touched again.

With this, she starts to cry, softly pushing past Mary Margaret back into the house.  She can’t even open her eyes.  She knows that if she does, she will only be bombarded with memories of Graham, the same way she did on the porch and in the shower earlier that day.  Blindly pushing through the people scattered through her house, she finds her way to the bedroom, then slams the door behind her.  As she falls face-first onto the unmade queen bed, she takes a deep breath - and immediately regrets it, as the whole bed is drenched with the smell of Graham, the weirdly indescribable mixture of men’s body wash, deodorant, cologne, and baby oil - his preferred aftershave.

As she lets out the first audible sob, she hears McKinley jump onto the bed and nuzzle his ever-growing head between her crossed arms.

Even just the thought of McKinley hurts her, the memory of a dog they’ve had for less than two years. As soon as they picked a date for their wedding, Graham went out to find a dog with that birthday - a Great Dane, specifically - so that it would be two years old on the day of their wedding.  She remembers the day he first showed up - it was Christmas eve - he had off work, but she didn’t, and she got off at 4.  Usually Graham insisted on picking her up and going out to dinner on days that she had to work later than he did, but this time he told her to come straight home.  So she did.  He was always good with presents, but she never expected a Great Dane puppy.

“Em, guess when he was born!”  Graham’s smile was so wide, the way it always seemed to get around her - and dogs.

“I don’t know, Graham.  When’s his birthday?”

He leaned towards her and gently kissed her neck.  “May 8th,” he whispered into her ear.  There were more presents under their little Christmas tree, but none of them mattered.  They had each other, they had a puppy, and for the first time in years, they stayed up all night that Christmas eve - and they weren’t waiting for Santa.

A soft knock on the door pulls Emma from her trance; McKinley jumps off the bed, greeting Mary Margaret at the door.  “Sweetie, it’s almost time to go.”

“I can’t stay here, mom.”  Her throat is dry and her face wet, and she knows she should get up and ready herself, but she can’t find the energy.

“No, sweetie, you’re right.  We have to go.”

She rolls over onto her back and stares at the unmoving ceiling fan. “No, Mary Margaret, more than that.  After the funeral, I have to move out.  I can’t stay here.  Everything hurts too much.” With this thought, she stands up and steps into their walk-in closet, McKinley’s untrimmed nails clicking on the hardwood floor behind her.

 

Emma rolls through the funeral in a daze.  She sees all the beautiful, colorful flowers, the reds and blues and purples that Graham would have adored.  She sees all the people - so many people, everyone from their neighbors to old college buddies.  And his students - so many of his students show up.  She hears all their names, feels their warmth when they hug her, but none of it sinks in.  Her body is there, she is aware of her surroundings, but her brain is somewhere else - everywhere else.

At first, she is nowhere.  She is just blank, her mind empty, seeing but no connecting.  

But then something pulls her mind away - memories of her wedding. At this moment, at his funeral, it all seems so far away, But it wasn't; it's been a week. They got married on a Friday, May 8th.  She was never as nervous as that day - not even today, one week later at his funeral. She sees every detail - the lace on her dress, the scuff on the toe of her left shoe, the bright red roses strung from the archway, above where they would say their vows.  She remembers not only the first step down the aisle, but every step from beginning to end, hoping she didn't fall with her shaky knees.  Mary Margaret tried to get her to wear heels, but she never did, never after falling the first few times she tried them on - she couldn't put that much pressure on herself, not any more than there already is, that is. Besides, you can't see her boots under her dress anyway.

After focusing on every other possible detail, she allows herself to see Graham, beaming from under the archway, the beautiful smile that was the first thing about him that she fell in love with. She feels the tears well up in her eyes, and for just a moment, they're out of happiness and not sadness.  But the moment quickly fades as she remembers just where she is, and for the first time since arriving, she allows herself to take in every detail, knowing that one day, she'll want to look back on this day and see everything the way she just saw her wedding.

Inspecting them closer than her original first glance, she begins to appreciate just how beautiful the flowers Mary Margaret picked out are. They're not just red, blue, and purple - no, they have a little bit of everything: red roses and pink orchids; orange lilies and yellow daffodils, and pure white calla lilies.  Graham wasn't a huge fan of flowers - Mary Margaret was always who picked them out whenever he brought her any - but he loved natural, vibrant colors.

  
  
  


She thought packing up and moving was going to be easy, but all she could see in every item she touched was Graham.  The bathroom is difficult - that was his toothbrush, his shampoo, his aftershave  - but that goes by relatively quickly, as she closes her eyes and tosses what she needs into a bag.  The kitchen is a bit harder, the bottles of her pills next to his, the fat “T”’s scribbled on the tops of some, or - even worse - his name printed on the labels of his prescriptions.  But, like the bathroom, that is over quickly: you didn't take your kitchen with you when you didn't know where you were going.

She’s just happy that Mary Margaret offered to pack up everything that she left behind, putting the useful things in her garage or in a storage unit, and putting everything of Graham's in her attic.  She’s not sure if she ever would have been able to finish that task, touching every article of everything that he owned.  Just looking at it was hard enough, but clearing everything out, she imagined, would be even harder - a means to an end she didn’t want to achieve.  

The bedroom is, by far, the most difficult. There is no way she was going through his bedside table, not even caring if Mary Margaret found the things buried deep below his car magazines. She allows herself to go through his dresser, pulling out the single article of clothing of his that she wants to take with her: the blue and black plaid pajama pants she bought him for their first Christmas together, all those years ago.  But, in ways that she couldn’t even imagine, going through her clothing was, by far, the hardest task of them all.  Her side of the closet hurts her even more than his did.  Everything of his brings back the memory of him - but everything of hers brings back specific memories of him.  There was the dress she wore on their first real date - the _only_ dress she ever wore on one of their dates.  Each of her favorite shirts, especially the button-downs she wore all the time, held the memories of the times she’s worn them for him - and the times he took them off of her. Same with her jeans - looking at every pair just brought her the pain of remembering the times they both struggled to pull them off of her in the heat of the moment, and of them getting stuck, too tight around her thighs, her calves, her feet.  Her pajamas were probably the worst, bought for her to wear, but most of them never succeeded at their main job.  It seemed as if every pair of underwear in her drawer was bought for her by him, and admired at one point or another.  

In the end, she has her laptop bag and one large duffel bag, holding everything she needs to start her new life.  She was always a light packer, but just the fact that she can fit her whole life into one bag surprises her a little bit.  She leaves most of her clothing behind, agreeing with herself on a few pairs of older jeans that she is more attached to than repulsed by; a handful of t-shirts that she can't bear to part with; her favorite pair of sneakers, plus the boots she has on her feet; three of Graham's favorite dress shirts, which hold too many good memories to be replaced by the devastation that his death brought to her; the pair of Graham's pajama pants, and a few of her own, for sheer necessity; the undergarments that hold the fewest negative memories; a few of her dressier work outfits, _just in case_ ; the few toiletries that she figures she would need; her pill bottles, and McKinley’s; McKinley’s extra collar, favorite toy; and all the money out of the shoe box that Graham put his extra cash in from the shelf in the closet.

Going in the garage is probably the most difficult part of leaving.  She could have avoided it, just packed her bag and McKinley in the truck, and pulled out, never looking back. But there is one thing in the garage that she needs, the one thing that is wholly and truly hers, hidden under a bright blue tarp in the corner, behind Graham's old restored Jeep: her motorcycle, plus the sidecar for McKinley.  She bought it as soon as she had exactly the $8000 saved that she needed to do so.  

She held up well during the rest of the packing, but as soon as she opens the garage door, she is in tears.  For every memory she had of every other item, the Jeep in the garage held more.  So much had happened in that exact Jeep, the Jeep he had when they first started dating, and kept for quite a few years thereafter, until he saved up enough money to buy his own truck - much like she did for the Nightster.  

The tears stream, and they stream long and hard - but still, she picks herself up off the seat of the truck, her designated crying spot for the moment, gives the Jeep one hard last look, then mounts the ramp to the back of the truck, packing the last bit of her life into the bed of the truck before she slams the garage door back to the ground and locks it.

 

* * *

 

At a rest stop on the opposite side of the Maine border, she pulls the shoebox out of the duffel bag, carefully counting the piles of cash saved up.  Graham's ability to save money without a second thought always amazed her; what amazes her even more is the sheer amount of cash stuffed into this shoebox, most of it back from the days he worked under the table and got paid in piles of $100 bills - almost $10,000.  On top of that, she has everything from their shared savings account, most of it his.  Social security checks from Graham's death, plus the money from Graham's insurance: she never had to worry about money again.  Even from beyond the grave, Graham was taking care of her.

For her, this whole journey is about living a new life, something completely different than anything she had ever done before.  And that was why she knows right away, driving into Boston, that this is going to be where her new life is going to begin.

Turning her head towards McKinley perched in the passenger seat, she contemplates her next move, stuck unmoving in rush hour expressway traffic.  The sun sits on the horizon, almost blinding her peeking out between buildings.  She turns towards McKinley.

“It’s getting dark, baby.  We need to find somewhere to sleep.”  He barks once, as if in response.  “Somewhere that will allow you.”  

She pulls his extra collar out of the bag, sliding it around his thick neck, then tightening it, followed by the matching dark blue vest, the thick white letters embroidered into both sides - “PTSD DOG IN TRAINING” - then she smiles at him.

“That makes things easier.”

She holds in the bluetooth button on the steering wheel, and after the beep, she says “Hotels near me.”  The car reads through the list, and she listens, waiting for one that sounds right, watching the red lights pop up and disappear on the screen in the dashboard, until there is one almost directly next to her little green “you are here” arrow.  “Stop.” She commands.  “Repeat.”

The car follows these directions, the little red dot growing bigger and blinking.  “Sheraton Boston Downtown Hotel.  $139,” the electronic lady’s voice reads to her.  

“Take me there,” she commands, then “Call Sheraton Boston Downtown.” And the car listens.  

The phone rings two times.  Then three, until what sounds like a prepubescent boy answers.  “Sheraton Downtown Boston.  How may I help you this evening?”

“Yes, I’d like to book a room, but I have a few questions first.”

“Go ahead, ma’am.”

“Do you allow service dogs in training?”

“Of course, ma’am.  It’s the law.”

“True.”  She waits a moment to ask the next question.  “How long of a stay am I allowed to book?”

“There is no cap on length, ma’am.”

“Can I pay in cash?”

“You can pay for the room in cash, yes, but we will need a credit or debit card on file for extraneous circumstances.”

“That sounds absolutely perfect.  How soon am I allowed to check in?”  She doesn’t wait a moment before this question, which is very much unlike her.

He gives a short laugh.  “How far away are you?”

Looking up out of her windshield, she smiles.  “I’m right outside.”

“Do you have any bags?”

“Only one.”

“Leave your car with the valet.  His name is Lawrence.  Tell him that Graham is just about to check you in, and of any special circumstances with your vehicle, and come on right in.  We will need about twenty minutes to ready your room, but you can enjoy our lounge, the dining area, or the bar during that short wait.”

“Thank you so much,” she says, pulling onto the parking pad.

“Can I have your name, Miss?”

This question is by far the hardest.  She glances down at her hand, where not four hours ago her engagement and wedding ring sat, before she removed them and left them with a note on the counter for Mary Margaret.   _Starting over,_ she thinks to herself, then says “Emma Swan.”

Stepping out of the truck, she rethinks the words that the receptionist just told her: _"special circumstances with your vehicle."_ She looks over at McKinley. "There are a few of those," she mumbles, then pulls up next to the valet stand, a smile plastered on her face.  "Are you Lawrence?" she asks the valet, who is a tall, blonde man with facial hair like none she's ever seen before, no beard or sideburns, but with a mustache that is long enough to extend down below his chin.  

When he responds, his accent strikes her as odd, and she has no clue where it might be from: "Yes, ma'am.  Lawrence Chamberlain, Sheraton valet.  How may I help you?"

"I was just on the phone with Graham, and he told me to leave you my truck."

Lawrence smiles back at her.  "Do you have anything you need me to know? And do you need a luggage cart?"

"No to the luggage cart."  She answers with a smile, pointing to the one bag that her and McKinley share, unlatching the truck key from the keychain.  "And there's a motorcycle in the back, but I'm going to lock that anyway."

Lawrence's eyes light up.  "What kind of bike?"

Pulling herself out of the truck, she heads back towards the tailgate.  "A 2008 Harley Davidson.  A Nightster."  Lifting up the back window of the cap, Lawrence excitedly looks inside.

"She's a beauty.  I've been saving up for one for a while now, but my wife says I can't get one unless I can own it right away, no payments or anything."  His hand moves to his mustache, twisting the hair between his thumb and pointer finger. "I've saved up quite a bit so far, but not enough to buy myself a new bike."

Emma just smiles at this, knowing exactly his struggles and remembering back to when they were her struggles, too. "The saving up is the hardest part.  But once you actually have it, it's so worth the wait."

He leans into the tailgate, squinting a bit.  "Is that a sidecar?"

"Yeah, that's for McKinley, my Great Dane.  He loves riding just as much as I do," she answers with a smile.

"Well, ma'am, I'll let you get on your way." He takes a step back, letting her close and lock the tailgate.  "I hope you have a nice stay."

"Thank you, Lawrence.  Do I owe you anything?" she asks, pulling her wallet out of her back pocket, but he just smiles.

"No, ma'am, it's not a problem.  I'll let Graham know where it's parked as soon as I get to it."

His response pulls another smile onto her face as she opens the driver’s side door to get the duffel bag and McKinley.  "Well, thanks again, Mr. Chamberlain.  Good luck saving up for your bike!"

As her truck pulls away, she looks up at the building, much taller than the hotels in Maine, and lets out a sigh. Everything is so different here, and for once, she finds her feeling of discomfort a good thing - a sign that she's doing the right thing.

She sees Graham as soon as she walks through the rotating doors, a few years older than she originally expected - probably about twenty, much more than the twelve she originally suspected. When she sees his name tag, it finally hits her hard, and she's not sure how she didn't realize it before, the sheer, painful irony of his name. 


	2. Emma

With full knowledge of the unwelcoming nature of hotel rooms, she finds herself pleasantly surprised by what she finds in Boston, unlike the boring, bright white rooms of Maine, and definitely with a different view - a large window shows a panorama of a city that is more beautiful than she ever expected, all glass and concrete and steel. On the 21st floor, only five floors from the top of the building, her view takes her breath away, the city stretched out in front of her - something Graham would have hated, being “trapped” by the crowded, loud, tall components of the city. She always loved the cities, but Graham found himself hating them every time she finally talked him into visiting one - which wasn’t very often (hence their honeymoon to Upper Peninsula Michigan instead of Europe, like she always dreamed of.) Needless to say, Boston didn’t let her down.

When she turns her focus inward, back to the welcoming hotel room, the dark colors welcome her in, embrace her, more than the bright whites of the beach-themed motels that she has grown up around. The dark blues and deep browns of the city room tears down her familiarity of harshly-bleached white sheets and comforters; where beach motels embrace the sheer, pale curtains and blinds, she finds thick, light-blocking curtains in the same navy color as the bedding. In place of tube televisions with their vicious, bulky remotes, a large flat-screen television takes up a chunk of the tan wall, with a coordinating sleek black remote resting peacefully on the dresser. The familiar glass-shrouded walk-in shower that she expects upon entering the bathroom she finds missing, replaced by a beautiful, sleek white clawfoot tub, a fabric curtain the same navy color as the main room, separating it from the rest of the room in a much more elegant way than those stupid glass-door showers that she always hated so much. 

_ Graham would have hated this,  _ she thinks, and looks down at McKinley, still sniffing around the suite.

"But I don't hate it," she says out loud, though she's not sure why.

She does another lap around the room, running her hand along the smooth, dark wood surfaces of the dresser, the bedside tables, the headboard. Realizing her duffel bag is still slung over her shoulder, she slides it off and tosses it on the bed, almost immediately followed by her body, then McKinley.

Silent, she lays there for a moment, trying to remember what Graham's excuse for never coming to the city was, but she can't think of it at first, until - 

_ "It makes me feel too miniscule.  The buildings are too tall, and I don't like feeling that vulnerable." _

Usually, his reasonings for not liking things was completely rational, but this is almost cutting into irrationality.  _ "Too many cars, too many people, not enough grass." _

They never argued about it - they never really argued about anything, really - she just let it go, not wanting to push him any further into something he didn't want to do. So they never went to big cities, Philadelphia being the largest he'd ever tried, unless you counted Washington, D.C., where they went for their tenth anniversary simply to visit the Smithsonian museums.  Up until this point, D.C. was the largest city she had ever seen - but now it seemed so small compared to the vast steel and stone city propped up outside her window.

Angry at herself for bringing what she came here to forget back to the forefront, she picks up the old-fashioned corded phone from the hook, sitting on the bedside table closest to the window, then dials the number taped to the receiver - the number for the front desk. Ironically-named Graham answers after the first ring.  “Front desk.”

“Hey, Graham, this is Emma Swan, room 2117.”

“How may I help you, Miss Swan?”

“Is there any way I can get something for McKinley to eat?”

She can hear the confusion in his voice.  “Excuse me, ma’am? The 25th president?”

This pulls a smile to her face.  “No, I’m sorry, I should explain.  McKinley is my dog.”

He simply laughs at this. “And what, exactly, would he like to eat? I’m afraid dog food isn’t offered on the menu, ma’am.”

“Would I be able to get some chicken? Just, like, pan-fried, nothing fancy?”

This time, his chuckle is audible through the phone. “I’ll see what I can do for you. Would you like anything for yourself?” he asks.

“No, thank you. I’m going to get him settled then come down myself.”

“Okay, ma’am. I’ll go check on the chicken and call your room if there’s a problem with it. Is that okay?”

“Perfect, actually.” They are both silent for a moment, until, “And Graham?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Thank you for your help.”

She places the receiver back on the hook and turns on the radio, positioned next to the television on the dresser.  _ Gosh _ , she thinks.  _ A real radio. _ With all the new satellite technology and the “seek” button in the truck, she hasn’t used a dial to find a radio station in what seems like years.  After a moment, she hears the deep voice of Billy Joel humming through the stereo, the end of “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant,” one of her favorites. She turns the volume up, then turns to her duffel bag and removes most of the items from it, laying them in piles on the bed: day clothes, night clothes, dress clothes; the shoebox ( _ I need to figure out if there are safes here, _ she tells herself, sliding it under the bed for the moment.) She carefully removes Graham's dress shirts and her nicer outfits and hangs them in the closet, followed by her sneakers. Without thinking twice, she nicely puts everything into drawers in the same order they’ve always been: undergarments and socks; shirts; pants; pajamas. 

Before she met Graham, her life - her dressers, her closet - had no order. He worked the order into her, and it apparently stuck. When she realizes this, she breaks down again: Graham was the center of her ordered universe. With tears streaming down her face, “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant” ends, and a quick station naming - “WZLX - Boston’s home for classic rock!” - immediately followed by the slow harmonica beginnings of Bruce Springsteen’s “The River” - her favorite Bruce song. She reaches up to the stereo and turns it up more, blasting the harmonica through the speakers in a way that only Bruce’s harmonica can be blasted. Falling face-first onto the deep blue comforter, she allows the vibrations to roll through her, just like she and her mother would do all those long years ago. These memories bring back a new wave of sadness, different than what she feel for Graham - sadness that’s had years to settle deep into her bones. She begins to focus not on her feelings, but on the rumble of Springsteen, the vibrations of his noise shooting through her mattress and into her bones.

She is so focused on these vibrations, on the music, that she almost doesn't hear the knock on the door - actually, she wouldn’t have heard it at all if it weren’t for McKinley, who lets out one sharp bark - a bark that pulls her out of her trance. 

“Right, room service,” she mumbles, going to the stereo first, turning down the dial to a “normal volume,” then walking to the door.

Moments after she turns the handle, she realizes that it hasn’t been long enough to make chicken - moments too late. 

At first, she is shocked, mainly at herself for not thinking about opening the door more; but as soon as she finds herself in the threshold of the open door, she is more shocked about the man standing in front of her. The first thing she notices is his hair -  an odd first-impression trait, she knows, but that doesn’t stop it from grabbing her attention anyway. It’s so unlike anything she’s ever seen before in the conservative parts of Maine, where hair was always parted in the center and no one ever did anything out of the ordinary. It hung in messy waves down to his shoulders - his  _ shoulders _ \- the rich, shining black of obsidian. The black jeans and grey button-down shirt he wore clung tightly to his body, showing off both his muscular arms and his coarse, black chest hair, as wild and shining as that on his head. But, as soon as he spoke, what surprised her the most was his accent, something vaguely European, but she couldn’t place it at first: 

“‘Scuse me, madam, but would y’be so kind as to turn down your music? I ‘ave and article due in the mornin’, and ‘m having a hard time concentrating as it is, plus with your music ringin’ through t’walls.“

She immediately feels the blood rush to her face, not realizing that she was in a hotel when she decided to blast the music. Her voice is thick in her throat when she goes to respond, and one word is all she can get out: "Sorry."

"'S'not a problem, madam, just a tad inconvenient."

She works up the courage to let a few more words out: "No, I'll turn it down. I'm - I'm really sorry."

His smile pulls a whole new chunk of confidence from her, and she doesn't even realize that it's happening.

“Th’name’s Killian, by the way. Killian Jones.”

“Emma, uh. Emma Swan.” At just this moment, McKinley pushes his way past Emma into the hallway, and almost immediately, a flashing, bright smile appears on Killian’s face. 

“‘Nd who is this beauty?”  He reaches his hand out, palm up, towards McKinley’s face, but lets the dog come the last few inches, sniffing like mad.

“This is McKinley. He’s in training to be a sight dog.” A moment passes, during which Killian falls to his knees to get closer to the dog. “You’re really good with him, do you have a dog?” As soon as she lets the question out, she’s surprised with herself, being so open right away.

Instead of answering, he lets out a sharp whistle, and she hears the patting of feet in the next room, which she now realizes is open. As soon as she sees the snout of a German Shepherd, she sets her hand down on McKinely’s back, making him sit - and Killian does the same to his dog and causes the same reaction. “Emma, this is Smee.”

With one look into the green eyes of that dog - and then into the green eyes of his owner - she knew that she had found the right place for her new beginning.


	3. Emma, Halloween

_He’s early_ , she thinks, glancing down at her watch. _I told him eight, and it’s only seven thirty._ After a moment, she has a more important thought: _I’m still in my towel._

He knocks again. “Just a second!” she yells, and McKinley pads behind her as she walks around the bed towards the door.  Opening it just a crack, she pokes her head out into the hallway, where Killian is standing, only not in his Halloween costume like she expected - unless he’s planning on going to the bar wearing only a clean white hotel towel.  When she sees him, she gains a bit of confidence, opening the door enough to show what she’s wearing.  “We’re wearing the same costume, it seems,” she proclaims, and McKinley tries to push himself out into the hallway, probably smelling Killian but hoping for Smee, his new best friend - then backing back into the hotel room when he doesn’t find him.

“No, no, I’aven’t even gotten dressed yet, I just need black eyeliner.”

His words pull a smile to her face. “You, Mr. Jones, need to borrow black eyeliner?”

“t’s all part o’the costume, love.”

“That doesn’t make the request any better.”

He smiles, and a beat of silence passes - after which he raises his eyebrows at her.

“Right,” she pulls herself back. “Eyeliner.” Sliding the door open, she turns around and back into the hotel room, looking around for a moment. “I normally don’t wear the stuff, but I might have some in the backup bag Mary Margaret packed for me for emergencies on the day of Graham’s funeral.”

 _Shit!,_ she yells to herself. _Shit, shit, shit._ For the past twenty days, she’s done her best to avoid talking about Graham at all, even mentioning him - until today.  For a moment, she is unmoving, not even breathing, but after the hesitation, it seems as if he didn’t even catch it - _or he did and he’s just avoiding mentioning it._

Deep breath - in, out. _Let it go, Emna._ In the bottom of her duffel bag, under the dirty clothes that have piled in there this week, she finds it - she small black bag, about the size of a jar of peanut butter, and unzips it, trying to think less of the reason she needed the bag in the first place - and more of the adventurer standing before her in his towel. In fact, she is trying so hard not to think of the backgrounds of the items inside it that she almost passes right over the small, thin black tube of eyeliner buried in the bottom. At the last possible moment, she pulls herself back to reality, feeling just what she was looking for between her fingers and pulling it out from the abyss.

A smile pulls itself onto her lips as she hands him the tube of eyeliner. “Will you tell me what your costume is now?”

His face turns to a smile that mirrors hers. “Absolutely not, Swan.”

“I really wish you would stop calling me that,” she argues, but the smile on her face grows, as it does every time he calls her Swan.

“Now, why would I do that when it always creates that smile?”

She finds herself speechless, once again, but he is heading towards the door, not expecting a reply. “I’ll be back at 8 to pick you up!” he calls behind him as he closes the door.

When she hears the click of the closed door, she throws herself backwards onto the bed. _Emma, what have you gotten yourself into?_

Half an hour later, right on the nose, there is another knock at the door - which this time she is ready for. She gives herself the once over, first by looking down then using the full-length mirror hanging on the back of the bedroom door - and she, once again, told herself that she looks ridiculous, wearing dark green tights, a lighter green tunic with a brown belt, a green hat, and brown slip-on sneakers ( all of which she had picked up earlier that week just for this occasion.)

Needless to say, even though Killian kept his costume a secret, she is more than pleasantly surprised at the sight she finds before her when she opens the door - and it was highly obvious that he had put much more thought into his than she had.  She notices things about him that she overlooked when he visited earlier: the fact that he hadn’t shaved, for instance, covering his chin with fresh, dark brown stubble.  His hair was parted to the side instead of the normal partless mess it usually is, pulled back into a thick braid that hung down past his shoulders. His outfit, however, threw her off guard, not ready to see him in the way he was standing before her. The top half of his chest was bare, sticking out from between the edges of a deep red vest, revealing his dark, curly chest hair; over the vest he wore an eloquent black leather trenchcoat, with the collar turned up over his neck, the lapels longer than those of a normal dress jacket - and also protruding away from his body. His long, lean legs were covered by shining black stretch pants, adorned with matching boots that came up to just under his knees.

The eyeliner was perhaps the most surprising part of the whole costume - Emma had never seen and guy pull off eyeliner anywhere near as well as Killian had, especially not in person (that’s not normally something you come across in Maine, though she had seen a good handful on the TV and the internet.) The last thing she noticed - and perhaps the most important part of the outfit, that really pulls everything together - was his left hand, replaced with a shining replica of the hook hand donned by the infamous Captain Hook (or, as he pronounced it, “Cap’t’n ‘ook”. )

Without even planning it, they had worn related costumes.

“Peter Pan? Really?” Of all the opening lines, this is perhaps his greatest.

“How did we pull this off?” she asks him with a smile, then, “And when are you going to tell me what the plan is?”

“Well, love, how’m I suppos’d’t tell you what we’re doing when I ‘aven’t even figured it out myself?”

“I thought you said you made plans?”

The ends of his lips curl up into a slight grin. “I was thinking that I would, but I never got around to it.”

“So now we’re here, costumed, at eight o’clock on Halloween, and you didn’t make any plans for us?”

“‘t shouldn’t be that ‘ard to find something to do in th’ci’y, ‘specially not tonight.” She shrugs, looking back on the few nights that they had already spent on the town.

“I don’t know how late I want to stay out on Halloween.”

“S’what does tha’ mean, ‘xactly?”

“I mean, we can go grab some drinks for a while, but I don’t know if tonight is really a good night to stay out for hours and drink.” Nodding, he doesn’t respond. “That doesn’t mean the night has to be cut short. I’m sure there are movies on the TV, or definitely something on Netflix - “

“What is that? Netflix?”

“It’s - “ His question catches her off guard, as she’s never had to explain it to someone before. “They have a lot of movies and, uh, shows available over the Internet, all the time.”

His eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead. “That’s a _thing?!”_ His eyes hold the same sparkles than those of a child on Christmas morning, coming down the stairs to a room full of presents.

“You mean, you’ve - you’ve never used Netflix?”

“Ne’er even heard of it.”

She can’t help but smile at his foreign sense of knowledge - but is suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to go out for drinks, show off their costumes and all the hard work that went into them - well, his, at least.

“Do you still want to get a drink?” she asks, at the exact moment he comments, “You look absolutely amazing.”

“What?” They ask together - she had never heard him compliment her before, so it threw her off; he was too overwhelmed by her and her Peter Pan costume that he didn’t hear what she said.

She turns her question into a statement, realizing just how much she needed a drink: “Let’s go to the bar.”

Without another moment of hesitation, she grabs her matching black purse - an accessory she normally goes without, but is a necessity with this outfit - and leads him out the door of her hotel room.

  
  


The bar they choose is dark and smoky - not cigarette smoke, but some other sort of smoke, the sort of smoke that still gets in your eyes and in your throat but doesn’t burn like the thick fumes of tobacco and cigars, not like the smoke in the other bars they’ve been to. Unlike the blaring music of club bars, and even the pumping backgrounds of others, the music in this bar was, once again, different - jazzy, but not quite jazz, somewhere beautifully in between.  The lights were low, but they didn’t make it difficult to see; in fact, the people, both in costumes and not, were easier seen in the bar than in the dark October evening at the outskirts of the well-lit concrete city. From what she saw upon her first look around the room, most of the men are wearing _at least_ three times as much clothing than the women: lumberjacks in jeans and long-sleeved flannel shirts compared to “sexy angels” wearing basically lingerie with strap-on wings; vampires completely covered in black, with long, red capes, or “slutty cats” - once again, just in lingerie, with headbands that have small ears on them, and whiskers drawn onto their faces. As they traveled closer to the back of the room, where they were accustomed to sitting, the costumes became better and better, superheroes, some more appropriate than others; Star Wars characters - tons of couples costumes like the ones she and Killian were wearing. A Tinkerbell and Peter Pan flash them smiles from across the room as the grab a table in the corner, magically empty.

“So, listen, Swan, about what I said earlier, right before we left -”

She sees his face begin to turn red. “Killian, really, it’s not that big of a deal.”

“No, but - but it is. I could tell I made you uncomfortable. You haven’t told me about what’s happened to you, why you all of the sudden moved from the middle of nowhere in Maine to a hotel room on the outskirts of Boston. But I hit a nerve today, and something about it really pushed you over the edge. I - I just wanted to apologize.”

His apology hits a nerve, and she feels her bottom lip begin to tremble, as it tends to when she gets emotional - _why_ is this making her emotional? She feels her throat closing up, her eyes watering, the small throbbing in her right temple that she gets every time she begins to cry. She knows that if she starts talking before she controls herself, she’ll start crying - and she can’t even think of anything to say.

“If you - if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, but - but I really want to know your story, Swan.” He leans in, attempting to cover one of her hands with his, but forgetting that it was covered by a fake hook and revokes the action.

“Can we at least order drinks first?” She feels the rush of energy across her face, the one that usually leads to crying, but she keeps it down; he just nods, standing up, but holds out his hook hand when she tries to do the same.

“You just sit down, I’ll bring them. What do you want?”

The thought brings a smile to her face. “Killian, you only have one hand, if you’ll remember,” she comments, pointing to his hand, still gesturing towards the table.

“Good point. You - you better come with, then.”

Around the bar is perhaps the most crowded area in the entire place, people so close up against each other that Killian has to physically pull some of them apart, until they finally reach the bar.

“What can I get you guys?” the short, blonde bartender yells across the polished black bar.

“You serve rum?” Killian yells, trying to hit the bar with both fists like he normally does, once again forgetting that he has a hook hand, which makes a terrible clang against the bar.

The bartender nods, pouring one over a few pieces of ice without waiting for an answer from Killian. “And for you?” she asks, looking at Emma.

Looking over at Killian, who has already swigged down the rum, she smiles and says, "Someone's got to stay sober on this God-forsaken night. I'll just have a Pepsi."

Killian throws his arm over her shoulder, letting out a laugh. "Why stay sober tonight, Swan? You don't have to drive anywhere. You said it yourself, we're not staying out too long."

She can't help but smile at this truth; "I'll have a rum and coke, then."

"Tha's much be'er," he stutters - she's learned that his accent gets drastically worse after about the third rum, telling her just where he seems to be already - and giving her more reason to catch up.

When she hands Emma her glass, the bartender runs her finger through her shining cropped hair. Looking at Emma, she asks, "Is his accent always that bad?"

Killian is paying no attention to them, instead seeming to be focused on a tall, thin redhead sitting a few seats down the bar, talking to a guy who, by the size of his arms, has to work out every day. Emma just rolls her eyes, smiling back at the bartender. “No, it’s usually pretty bad, but alcohol makes it worse, and he’s apparently had a head start.” She feels Killian’s hand on her shoulder - thankfully not the one with the hook attached to it.

“Swan, someone took our table.” Looking over her shoulder, she sees that he’s right.

“I guess we’ll just have to sit at the bar, then,” she says, and he just smiles, then leans against the bar to say to the bartender, “Can I have a beer, please, love? Whatever your favorite is.”

The bartender eyes Emma, smiling as she rolls her eyes, and hands her a bottle of Coors Light.

Killian flies through his first beer, then a second, before Emma even finishes her first. When the bartender hands him his third, she leans in towards Emma. “Should I worry about him? Because of the accent, I can’t really tell how slurred his speech is getting, and that’s usually how I tell when it’s time to flag people.”

Emma just shakes her head. “He can hold alcohol like nobody’s business, so there’s no need to worry about him.” She glances at the watch on her wrist. “Besides, we should get going soon anyway.”

The bartender looks up and down the bar, watching pandemonium happen all around her - but nobody is waiting for a drink, so she leans back across the bar. Killian can’t take his eyes off of the redhead - “Who, by the way, is drinking ginger ale!”, the bartender whisper-yells across the bar to Emma - his eyes locked on to her in some sort of trance. Neither of the girls are surprised by just how many eyes are on her. (“Halloween is _always_ like this, and it’s so much worse at city bars than anywhere else,” the bartender explains. )“I always thought it was just some movie cliche!”

The bartender’s jaw drops. “You mean - you mean you’ve never gone out on Halloween before?”

“I mean, not since I was little! And this is the first Halloween that I’ve been single since my junior year of high school, so I’ve never really seen the necessity of getting dressed up to go out.” She thinks back to all the years that she and Graham spent inside, in their pajamas, watching Rocky Horror Picture Show or Psycho or Harry Potter, and pausing the movie to give candy to the few kids who went trick-or-treating around their neighborhood, even in high school. “No, I don’t think I’ve actually left my house on Halloween since elementary school, maybe middle school.”

“That’s so weird! Did you grow up in the city?”

“Oh, no, no, I’m from a small town in Maine.”

The bartender smiles. “That makes a little more sense. I grew up a few minutes from here and have spent my whole life in the city - I only moved across-town to go to college, and now I live a block from my parents. I guess you can say I’ve always been a city girl, and I probably always will be.”

A few feet from the bar, a man dressed up as Superman - tights included - waves his hand up in the air, making eye contact with the bartender, who smiles at Emma in apology and walks down the bar to get Superman a refill.

Emma looks over at Killian as he gulps down the last few mouthfuls of his beer, slamming the bottle down on the bar, hopefully harder than he meant to. His eyes are still on the redhead, who Emma finally realizes can only be dressed as Daisy Duke, in extremely short cutoff jean shorts, showing off the bulk of her long, tan legs; a bright red crop top with a dark blue stripe across the top, filled with a row of white stars; and bright red stiletto heels, very much unlike anything she’d ever seen Daisy Duke wear.

“Swan!” Killian’s voice is loud in her ear, pulling her back to reality. “I’m going to go talk to her!” If she hadn’t spent the past month with him, she wouldn’t have even been able to tell what he was saying through his thick, alcohol-deepened accent. She takes his hand in hers, forgetting that he has a hook, and when she grabs that instead, she uses her other hand to grab his forearm.

“That’s not a good idea, Killian.”

“Why the hell not? You don’t think she’ll like me?” If there weren’t so many people in the bar, his yelling would have been attracting attention.

She pulls him closer, hoping to lower his internal need to yell. “Killian, I have no doubts in your abilities. But look at your competition. Just _look_ at that guy that she’s been talking to. He’s, like, twice your size. He can _crush_ you Killian.” But he doesn’t listen. Standing up, he adjusts his jacket, then runs his fingers through his hair. “ _Killian,_ ” she pleads, squeezing his forearm, but it turns out to be unnecessary - as soon as he takes the first step towards her, Daisy Duke and her companion stand up, too, leaving the bar.

As they walk away, he crumbles back against the bar. "I could 'ave 'ad her-" he hiccups loudly "-if I would've tried sooner."

Emma just rolls her eyes, smiling at the bartender. "I think it's time to take you home, Killian."

There's a scoff from the bartender. "I'm definitely not serving him anymore," she yells over the noise of the bar, then walks away.

"Your place or mine?" she asks, pulling by his non-hooked hand out of the crowded and smoky bar. When he doesn’t answer, she decides for herself - even though she knows that she won’t be awake for very long after falling face-first onto her bed.

 

 

The first thing she notices when she wakes is the headache - quite literally the worst of her life, the kind that sends flashes of pain through her whole body with each heartbeat. She tries to sit up, but her entire body says no, _screams_ it at the top of its lungs - so she listens, collapsing back onto her bed.

It takes a few minutes, but once her body becomes less angry, she notices the second thing - the presence on the other side of the queen bed. The sheet covered it completely, but she didn’t have to move it to know who was there.

“Killian,” she whispers, hoping not to wake him; his body seems to shudder in one quick spasm, but her wish comes true, and he doesn’t move any more.

Releasing a breath she didn’t know she was holding, she takes a quick roll of her surroundings: the bright red numbers on the alarm clock on her bedside table, screaming “10:13” at her pounding brain; McKinley and Smee, both asleep on the floor; her Halloween costume lying on the ground in front of the dresser - then herself, currently wearing pajamas. Killian, still in his costume (minus the hook, sitting on the dresser in front of the TV). While she knows that it wasn’t even a possibility, she is relieved to see them both fully dressed. Trying to stay as quiet as possible, she slips out from between the cold silk sheets and slinks into the shower, hoping to alleviate her headache completely. After fifteen long and throbbing minutes, she finds no avail within the steam that condenses on the walls, the door, the mirror. Distraught, she slides the white hotel robe over her sticky body and finds the ibuprofen in her toiletries bag, turning her head under the faucet to fill her mouth with water before popping them between her lips and sending them down her throat. Standing in the steam feels good - _great_ \- so she lowers herself onto the cold linoleum floor, her head against the cold tile wall, and drifts back into a very deep sleep - so deep that she sleeps through Killian rummaging around the room, the dogs jumping up and begging to go out, then through the closing of the door behind the two canines and the pirate.

 

“I would have gotten out of the bed if I knew it bothered you that much.” Killian’s voice is thick and deep, obviously dripping with the same hungover headache that Emma woke up with - but is somehow gone after the power nap.

“Well, good morning to you, too, sleepy. And it didn’t bother me, I just needed to take a shower to get rid of this headache.”

“Good morning?” he throws back at her. “It hasn’t been morning for three hours, Anna.”

Glancing at the same clock that yelled “10:13” at her what felt like an hour ago, she sees his statement is correct.

“How -?” she starts, but realizes that the question is unnecessary - hangovers do weird things to a person, including causing three-hour naps taken on the bathroom floor; so she begins again. “How long have you been awake?”

“That’s a difficult question. I got up around 11, took the pups for a stroll around the block - your McKinley is a strong one, but a good listener - showered, changed, then came back here, tried to go back to sleep - and failed, which surprised me, since I have this pounding headache and that usually helps. So I just paged through the channels for what seemed like forever, but the only thing on is these weird wizard movies, “Harry Potter?” I’ve never heard of them, but they’re actually very good.”

“You’ve - you’ve never seen Harry Potter?” she asks, astounded.

“Swan, I was raised on the other side of the globe. We didn’t have the same movies as you.”

“Killian, Harry Potter is a _global movement._ ” She falls down onto the bed next to him, still wearing only the white hotel robe, excited for this chance to introduce one of her favorite stories to someone. “Which one is on? When did they start? Did I miss “The Prisoner of Azkaban? That’s my favorite.”

Her words formed so quickly that Killian couldn’t interpret them through his headache.

“Swan, slow down,” he grumbles, his hands pressed to his temples. “Were any of those even words?”

Looking at him, with his beautiful hands pressed to his temples, she can’t help but smile. Then, focusing more on the television, she sees the obvious presence of David Thewlis, her beloved Professor Lupin, and she knows that she hadn’t missed her favorite part, at the Shrieking Shack.

Then she hears it - in fact, she almost misses it, and she would have had she had more time to get into the movie - Killian’s laughter. Turning fiercely towards him, she scowls: “What are you laughing at? Harry Potter is not funny. Well, not this part.”

“I’m not laughing at the movie, Swan.” It was the first time that her reincarnated childhood nickname had not given her goosebumps. “I’m laughing at you. At the fierce sparkle in your eye and the fact that you couldn’t get your words straight when you saw what was on. That twinkle…” He pauses a moment, staring, it seemed to her, straight into her soul. “It’s beautiful. It makes me want to know more about you - everything about you.”

“Can’t we finish the movie first?” On the inside, she’s moved to tears - tears that she can’t let him see right now. She wants to tell him everything, but not here, not like this. Not when she’s so unsure what she told him the night before, or if he even remembers how they ended up sleeping in the same bed.

She immediately knows that she chose the wrong words. The excitement and passion in Killian’s green eyes slips away in just moments; he slumps down, his back no longer straight, his head no longer facing forward. It’s a look that she knows too well: he is ashamed.

Before she has the chance to alleviate the situation, he swings his legs off the side of the bed, runs his hand through his hair - then, without a word, walks out of the room, Smee steps behind.

She can’t even focus on the movie - her favorite movie, the movie that she was so excited to watch moments before.

“What have I done?” she asks McKinley, glad that she hasn’t lost everything - not yet.


	4. Emma

At almost the exact moment the movie ends, there's a knock on her door. She only half paid attention to the last half hour of the movie, so the knock on door doesnt't register right away - in fact, she probably wouldn't have acknowledged it at all if it weren't for McKinley.

Standing up, she realizes that she's still just in her robe. She wants to change into real clothing, but she doesn't want to make whoever's at her door wait - especially if it's Killian. So, still berobed, she pushes herself off the bed and over to the door.

When she sees who is waiting on the other side, she wants to be surprised, but is more worried - because instead of Killian, it's Cassandra, Graham's older sister.

Her presence itself brings back a string of memories, something Emma hasn’t had to deal with for a few weeks now - but the string of memories is mostly of Graham, as Cassandra moved out of the house the day after she graduated college and basically hasn’t spoken to the family since then: Graham's anger when his mother suggested she be invited to the wedding, the red flash across his face that only showed up when he was majorly angry, and the flow of Mary Margaret's tears when Graham turned down the idea; the sadness on Graham's face when she didn’t show up at the wedding (because he _knew_ that Mary Margaret tried to invite her, he _just knew it_ ); and, lastly, the flash of pain on Mary Margaret’s face, standing at the front of the church, both of them shrouded in black, when she saw Cassandra sneak through the back doors and stand against the wall for the last half hour of Graham's beautiful but emotional funeral.

Most likely because of the stigma of her presence alone, Emma's words don't come right away, and when they do, they make no sense, a jumbled mess of question words and sputtering sounds.  Instead, Cassandra opens, her words nicely formed and in the right order.

“Emma, hey. I heard you were in town and decided it was time to give you a visit.” When Emma doesn’t answer right away, she keeps going. “I heard what happened, and I know - _I know_ \- how you must feel. I can’t believe it, he was such a wonderful person, and he was taken from us too soon.”

One of these words in particular hits a chord within Emma, and she finds her anger, her pain, her _resentment_ towards the human being in front of her: “ _Us_?! How can you even categorize yourself as a part of Graham's family if you haven’t even spoken to him since the day you decided you no longer wanted to be a part of their family?”

“Emma, please - “ Cassandra starts, but she just continues as if it never happened.

“He loved you, and he cared about you. He tried to contact you _so many_ times, and you just kept going in your fucking terrible lifestyle, and now you come to me, his wife - _his widow_ \- and try to classify yourself as his sister again? You lost that title the day you left.”

“You aren’t the only person that lost him that day, Emma.” Cassandra’s eyes are full of tears, on the brink of overflowing. “He was my brother, and I loved him just as much as you did.” This time, Emma goes to stop her, but Cassandra refuses. “I almost stayed home just because of Graham, but I just couldn’t do it anymore. Did she ever tell you why I left, Emma? That damned woman who I’m sure loved you _so_ much - sure as hell more than she ever loved me. She couldn’t stand me, or anything that I ever wanted to do. She wanted me to be a teacher, or an accountant, or a therapist - anything except a songwriter, an author, a poet. ‘Something with substance,’ she used to tell me. But Graham understood. Graham, who always made the right decisions, who _wanted_ to be a teacher, even before Mary Margaret wanted him to. He was always so _fucking_ perfect, but I adored him anyway.” Her tears begin at fall, no longer held back. “But then when I _wanted_ to go to college, something he never wanted to do, but needed to - that put Mary Margaret over the edge. ‘He’s sending himself,’ she would remind me, which was totally unnecessary, because dad left us enough to _both_ go, but no. That wasn’t good enough for her.”

As much as Emma wants to feel bad for her, she’s still heard Graham’s side of her story - the drugs, the drug addict boyfriend, and, most of all, the totaled car on prom night, which cut deeply into the college money David left her.

She knew that it was a low blow, but it needed to be brought up: “What about the totaled car?”

Cassandra’s eyes went wide, momentarily pausing their tear flow. “I can’t believe he told you about that - actually, yes, I can. He just loved flaunting that story, the day that his little sister wrecked the car because someone spiked the punch after prom. It wasn’t even my _fucking_ fault, Emma! Did he ever tell you that!” Now she was not only crying, but yelling - still standing on the threshold of Emma’s hotel room.

Realizing this, Emma takes her by the wrist, trying to pull her inside, out of the public hallway, but Cassandra wasn’t having it. “Don’t fucking touch me. If you’re going to use my high school mistakes as a reason that I shouldn’t mourn my brother’s death, then I don’t even want to talk to you!”

“Your ‘high school mistakes’ are no reason to walk out on your family, Cassandra.”

“Don’t tell me how to live my life, either. You’ve had everything handed to you, either by your parents or Mary Margaret, who took you in but never gave me anything!”

It’s at this moment that the tables turn for Emma, the scales tipping in her direction: “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what? That my own mother loved you more than she could ever love me?”

 _She doesn’t know_ , she repeats to herself, realizing that.

“You were two years behind Graham, so you graduated the year before me. You were practically gone. _You don’t know,_ ” she repeated once more.

“Don’t _fucking_ know _what?”_ she was fuming.

“My house burnt down my junior year of high school, two years after you left. My parents didn’t make it, and your mother - my mom’s best friend, remember that? - took me in like the fantastic person that she is.”

The tears were gone - now she was just angry. “That’s just fucking beautiful. I bet she gave you my bedroom, replaced the thought that I was ever there.”

“Your bedroom is still the way you left it, Cassandra. When you left, she was devastated - they both were, her and Graham. But that didn’t stop you, now did it?” Cassandra tries to push past her, into the hotel room, but Emma doesn’t let her - and either does McKinley, who had been silently sitting behind Emma, waiting for confrontation to start just so he could stop it.

“No way, you’re definitely not coming in now. You could be as angry at your mother as you want, but once you start blaming her for your problems, you lose my help. You wouldn’t even still be here if I didn’t love your brother as much as I did, because I know for a fact that he wouldn’t just let you go. But once you start insulting the woman that took me in when I lost everything, than you’ve gone too far.”

“Yet, here you are, running away from her. Did you say goodbye before you left her all alone, or did you just leave like everyone else in her life?”

And with that, she simultaneously made her next big decision and slammed the door.


	5. Killian

“What have you gotten yourself into, mate?” he says out loud, letting the scalding water rush over him, melting away not only his headache, but, he assumed, also his skin - the hot water in America was _way_ hotter than in anywhere else in the world; but he also never felt the need to take a scalding shower while in the scalding temperatures that he in his childhood knew so well.

There’s, of course, not an answer to his question - not one that he knew, at least. Emma might know; Smee might know; his mother would definitely know, because she knew everything. _Maybe I’ll call her,_ he thinks, but knows that he won’t.

When he steps out of the bathroom, he knows that something isn’t right next door - he hears raised voices, not quite yelling at each other, but definitely upset about something, though he can’t figure out what. After a moment of contemplating whether or not he should check on Emma, he comes to the appropriate conclusion: she can fend for herself. Besides, she didn’t seem to want to talk to him half an hour ago when he left.

Looking back, he realizes that it was an adolescent decision - she probably didn’t mean it the way he took it, she was just excited to watch the movie and didn’t want to make small talk.

At the same time, she definitely shot him down big time, and, whether she meant to or not, she hurt him.

 _Don’t be such a wuss, Killian James._ (Whenever he talked to himself, he used his middle name, though he’s never really known why.)

He knew it wasn’t right, and almost entirely impossible to follow through with, but when he saw the flash of excitement in her eyes earlier that day, he knew he was in over his head. He wouldn’t say that he _loved_ her, because that’s going too far, but whatever you would call it, it was definitely a strong feeling.

 _Her newlywed husband just died, you twat._ (He is also very good at insulting himself.) _She’ll never like you like that._

His head spinning, either from the catastrophe that is his life or the small remainder of his hungover headache, he falls face-up onto the hotel bed, forgetting a moment too late that his whole body is still dripping wet - a wetness that he transfers to the bedclothes.

“I should go check on her,” he says to no one in particular after a few minutes, but Smee picks his head up to look at him, as if he knows what’s going on.

“On the other hand, I have a story due tomorrow at midnight, and I don’t even know if she wants to talk to me.” Even with full knowledge of his responsibilities, he lays unmoving on the bed, slowly feeling all of the water sop further into the comforter strewn over his unmade bed. He tries to keep his eyes from closing, but - what the hell, why not?

It may have been minutes, it may have been hours, but a knock on his door pulls Killian out of his unconsciousness, and he immediately becomes aware of the fact that he is still only wearing a towel.

He takes a moment to pull on a pair of jeans - less compromising than the bleached-white hotel towel - then limbers over to the door, his hand running through his (dry) hair, first on his chest, then on his head.

Though he never would have admitted it, he is overwhelmingly surprised to see Swan on the other side of the threshold, changed out of the robe that she wore all morning and into dark jeans, clean white Converse, and a dark green button-down.

“Swan, I - “ he starts, but he stops her by putting her small hand on his chest, both a sign for him to stop talking and an action that renders him speechless for a moment, the warmth of her hand a strong contrast with his chest.

“Killian, no, I need to say something first.” She pauses to give him a chance to answer, but he just nods. “I never meant to make you leave earlier. As soon as you were out the door, I knew that I made a mistake - a mistake that I wasn’t sure that I could make up from.” He can’t help but wonder if she noticed how fast his heart was beating, her hand still pressed lightly up against him. “You’re the only person that has offered me unconditional consolation, and I can’t begin to thank you enough for that.”

He heard the next word in his head before she said it - and when she still didn’t after a few seconds, he did: “But?”

Instead of answering right away, she begins by just nodding for a moment, taking her bottom lip between her teeth. “But I need to go home. Back to Maine.”

“Is this because of whoever you were fighting with earlier?” He is unsure whether it’s his business or not, but ultimately decides that she’ll let him know.

And that’s exactly what she does, first by nodding, then by pushing past him and letting herself into his hotel room. “It was Cassandra, my husband’s - “ a flash of pain crosses her face, then she corrects herself: “Graham’s sister.”

“You never told me he had a sister.”

“I never told you a lot of things, Killian, but Cassandra should be the least of your worries. She hasn’t talked to either of them - Graham or his mother - since the day after she graduated high school, didn’t show up at the wedding, but decided to show up to the funeral.” He can tell she’s holding back tears, but she doesn’t let them come yet, not as she sits upon Killian's bed. “I haven’t really spoken to her at all before today, since she was out of the house by the time I moved in with Mary Margaret, after my parents died in a house fire.” ( _How’d she get past telling me that one?_ he thought to himself, but stayed silent.) “I don’t even know how she found me, because I doubt she called Mary Margaret first, and she’s the only person who knows where I am.”

Without knowledge of the damp bedspread, she throws herself backwards, laying her head right in the middle of the wet spot Killian had left. She either doesn’t notice or it doesn’t bother her, because she has no outward reaction.

“But, however she found me, she made me realize a lot of things, most of all the fact that I need to go back home, if only for a few days. I left in a rage, needing to get away, but now that it’s been a few weeks, I need to go back and make sure everything is okay. Cassandra left Mary Margaret without warning, then Graham - and then, just when she needed me the most, I left her without even saying goodbye or making sure that she was okay.” She takes in a deep breath, then slowly lets it out, shakily. “I need to go check on her.”

To him, there’s not a more obvious answer: “Then let’s go.”

"Killian." The slideshow of emotion that dances across her face only personifies the tip of her emotional iceberg. "I can't ask you to do that, to come with me. You have a life here, a job - more than I have anywhere."

He can't help but shake his head. "You're wrong, Emma. You have me, and I have you. If you need to go back to Maine to fix yourself, to feel better about what's become of your life, then I'm absolutely not leaving you at this part of your journey." He gives her an opening to argue, but she didn't take it. "Something brought us together. I don't know what, and I think I know why, but it's not time for that."

In the moment it takes the look to flash across her face, he knows that she knows. "Killian, I can't - " The tears that she was trying so hard to hold back start to fall from her eyes, and he knows that he's gone too far. "I can't," she repeats.

“You don’t need to _do_ anything, Swan. But I know I can’t leave you now, no way. I - “

“Don’t say it,” she tries, but her assumption is incorrect.

“I care about you, and I need to know that I did everything I could to help you get through this mess, no matter what that is.” He pauses, waiting for her to look up at him, to see the emotion in her pale green eyes - and he doesn’t need to wait long. “Even if that means suppressing my emotions. Because I’m not leaving you, but I’m not making you do anything.”

He turns around and rummages through the drawers of the dresser, finding a plain black t-shirt, if only to have something to do with himself and to give her a moment to get her thoughts together.  When she still doesn’t say anything after he pulls the shirt over his head, he steps into the bathroom to grab his comb, pulling it through the tousles created by air-drying his hair and not taking care of it.

“I want you to come with, but I need to know that you’re okay with the intentions of it. I need to go back to fix the situation between me and my mother in law, and, at the moment, I’m still desperately in love with Graham. I just need you to know that, and to be okay with it.”

By the look in her eye he can tell that she has more to say, so he just nods.

“I wake up every morning praying that it was all a dream, a terrible nightmare where I lose everything I love. Because how is it not a nightmare? Losing your husband on the way to your honeymoon? Having to attend your wedding and your husband’s funeral all in the same week? What kind of world do we live in where this is an actual situation?

“Instead, I wake up to an even worse nightmare: the fact that it’s all real. I want so much to open my eyes and see the grey blackout curtains, the white walls, his beautiful sleeping face, but instead I wake up the nightmare that is my life, running away from my problems, living out of a suitcase in a city I never even planned to visit.” He didn’t remember exactly when they started, but he realizes that her tears are full-stream flowing now, her nose running like a locomotive - but none of this stops her words. “I don’t know if I fully understand the ‘why’ yet, but I know that I have to go back to Maine. And if you can accept and fully understand what I just told you, with full knowledge that you most likely can’t do anything to help me - at least not yet - then you’re welcome to come with me. But if your vision is clouded with what you think you want and what you think you need, then I think the best thing for you is to stay here.”

He can’t help but smile at himself, even with full knowledge that it’s completely inappropriate in the situation, but when he realizes his answer, the smile comes without a second thought. “Then let’s go.”


	6. Killian

Looking over at her, tear stains on her cheeks, untamable flyaways, her forehead pressed onto the hard leather of the steering wheel, he wants desperately to do something - anything - to help her. The only problem is that he doesn’t know what. The past four hours have been simultaneously the best and worst of his life. Why? Well: two separate instances of dogs getting sick, both in the bed of the truck (thank the Lord); one instance of Swan getting sick in the bathroom of the rest station; an unfathomable amount of radio station changes; going through three boxes of tissues (BOXES - who knew girls had that many tears in them?!) But at the same time, Swan had broken down and told him everything, from the beginning to the end, from the fire to the funeral. When he finally decides to lift his arm up and place his hand on her shoulder, however, she pushes the door open and throws herself out into the rain. 

When he follows her, he finds himself cold to the core within moments from the rain - it’s not the kind of rain that he’s used to, the rain that sticks to your skin and stays on the surface of your clothing, and definitely not the rain from his childhood, what little of it there was. No, this is a new kind of rain, the kind of rain that seeps down deep into your core, chills your bone marrow and your teeth and things that you never thought would be able to get cold. When he reevaluates his outfit, he wishes he would have known that Maine rain was the exact opposite of rain at the beach, the sand, the sun, made him long for the rain back home, rain that makes your clothing stick to your skin instead of freezing right through it, rain that  _ warms  _ your body instead of turning you into ice. 

“Swan,” he calls out to her, but the wind swallows his words before they reach her and he decides to stay out in the warm truck with the canines. She returns faster than he expects her to, her dark green t-shirt stuck tight to her skin and her hair standing up in ways that seem to defy gravity. “Well, that didn’t take very long-” he begins, but she cuts him off.

“Oh, we’re nowhere near done. She’s not even here, though I have no idea where else she might be on a Monday night. I just wanted to come out and say that we can start unpacking, because we’ll probably be here for a while.”

He takes a moment to process this, then thinks about himself for the first time in a few hours. “Do you have WiFi here? I have a story due tomorrow.”

Her smile assures him that things are looking up, not just for her, but for both of them, and glances towards the sky through her windshield. “Actually… are you hungry? I know a great diner, and could use some good food right now.”

“That might be the greatest question you’ve ever asked me.”

 

All eyes were on her as the bell over the door rang inside Granny’s Diner. Killian could see the awkward smile plastered on her face, knowing full well that everyone would be watching her, watching them there together. “Small towns are a bitch,” she warned him from the car, and he knew she was right as he followed her through the door. After a moment of awkward silence, the little old lady behind the counter returned Emma’s smile, excitedly exclaiming her name, and the rest of the restaurant followed suit -  _ that  _ must be Granny.

Killian’s been in lots of awkward situations -  _ hell _ , he’s been in countries where he hasn’t spoken a word of the language, and he would take that feeling over the tension in the diner in a heartbeat. He could only imagine how much more awkward Emma must feel, but for the time being, he just minds his own business, taking a seat in the corner booth, where he can watch over the whole restaurant. 

He watches her, doesn’t take his eyes off of her as she makes her way around the restaurant, talking with everyone - really,  _ every single person _ . Every few minutes, she’ll look up at him, flashing an awkward half-smile in his direction, but she never introduces him, or even gestures towards him. But he understands why, he can hear the whispers throughout the restaurant, the under-the-breath mumbles about the mysterious man Emma brought with her. He doesn’t blame them, understands where they are coming from: a month and a half ago, she was a newlywed; a month ago, she was a widow - and then she disappeared. 

As she finally makes her way back to him, she yells to Granny behind the counter: “Hey, Granny, can we get two hot chocolates and two plates of your world-famous pancakes, please?” 

Granny just smiles at her, then pushes through the doors into the kitchen without a word. Emma sits down across from him, the smile disappearing from her face as soon as her back is turned to the restaurant. 

“Killian, this is the worst mistake I have ever made.” 

“Y’know, I was sort of getting that vibe from you while you walked around the restaurant.”

“Let’s go back. We don’t need to talk to anyone else, we’ll just eat our pancakes and be on the way.”

“Emma, no. We’ve come all this way to talk to who you need to talk to, and I’m not letting you leave until you feel better.” Without thinking about it, he reaches across the table and places one of his hands on top of hers - then immediately senses his mistake and takes it back. 

She looks up at him, blushing slightly, and smiles. “Thank you.”

It doesn’t take long for their pancakes to arrive, but within that time, Emma lets Killian in on who everyone is, pausing for a moment when the waitress - Ruby - brings the plates to the table, winking at him as she sets his pancakes down in front of him. 

Emma only has a few pieces left on her plate when the bells over the door rings again, and Emma’s head snaps up, a smile ( _ a real one)  _ spreads across her face. “Hi, mom.” 

“Oh, Emma,” the woman breathes, taking a seat next to Killian, but pushing him over as if he’s not even there. “Oh, honey, I missed you so much.” 

Emma pushes her plate to the side, reaching across the table to hold Mary Margaret’s hands. “I’m sorry I left without telling you.”

“I told you to leave.”

“Not without saying goodbye. You meant - mean - so much to me, and I just up and left when - when you needed me the most.”

“Oh, sweetie. I love you, and you have been like a daughter to me for so many years, but the, uh, the person I needed most was already gone.”

As if for the first time, Mary Margaret turns towards Killian, realizing he is sitting next to her. 

Her eyes narrow, her brows furrowed. “And you are?”

“Killian, ma’am. Killian Jones. I’m, uh - “ He realizes that he hasn’t even thought about how to introduce himself in relation to Emma, especially here, but thankfully, Emma takes over. 

“He’s a friend that I met while I was away.”

“Emma, you can’t - “ Mary Margaret starts, but Emma stops her. 

“Killian, would you, uh, would you mind giving us a few minutes?” 

He pulls his laptop bag out from between the wall and his hip, smiling at her. “I do have some work to get done. Is there a park nearby?”

“Down the block,” Mary Margaret says blankly. “I’ll try not to keep her for too long.” She slides out of the booth, letting him out, but says nothing else. 

“I’ll come find you when we’re finished,” Emma says to him, and he walks away, stopping at the counter to pay their bill before exiting the restaurant. 

Thankfully, the rain has stopped over their lunch break, leaving the early July air thick and cold as he opens the tailgate of the truck to let the dogs out. McKinley runs straight for the diner, happily back home, then comes barreling back to Killian. Smee is more skeptical, slowly walking around the truck, his nose pressed to the ground. 

Killian hooks the two leashes to their collars, then looks around, realizing that, while he knows that the park is “down the block,” he doesn’t know which way that is. 

“The town can’t be that big,” he says out loud, partially to himself and partially to Smee, starting off away from the restaurant. Turning the corner, he realizes that it doesn’t matter which direction he would have chosen, for the park takes up the whole block behind the row of houses across from the restaurant. 

He knows he has an article to finish, a review of one of the books he was assigned, but the sight before him catches his eye and excites him in a way he hasn’t been excited the whole time he’s stayed in Boston:  _ pickup soccer.  _ Sure, he doesn’t know anyone, but that  _ absolutely  _ does not mean that he won’t be taking part. 

Some of the players stop what they’re doing when they see him approaching, definitely not dressed to play soccer, especially in the mud - but he doesn’t care, taking off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt, leaving him in jeans and a bright red t-shirt. One of the players, in black joggers and a dark green shirt, approaches him, holding out his hand in greeting, showing off a large lion crest tattoo. 

“I haven’t seen you around here before, my friend,” he says, taking Killian’s hand in his, then covering it with the other hand. “My name is Robin Locksley.”

“Killian Jones.”

“Where are you from? And what brings you out here to our neck of the woods?”

“I’m not really from anywhere, per say, but was raised around the globe. But I came here with Miss Swan - uh, Mrs. Humphrey - “ he hopes he’s remembering that correctly. “- To take care of some things that she needed to take care of.”

This lights his face up like a match. “Emma - Emma is back?”, and Killian can’t help but smile back. 

“Yeah, yeah, she needed to come back, she has some things she needs to take care of in order to move on, and I, uh - I came with her.”

“Well, Killian, it’s good to have you. Join the defense?”

Killian’s smile grows, and he claps Robin on the back as they head back towards the field together. “Yes, please.”


End file.
